Unsolicited Advice – Page 8 – Earth and Midnight

Let’s Call It A Draw

For some family vacations, we’d drive to visit my great-grandparents in Arkansas. Once, as we got close to their neighborhood, one of my parents guessed that Great-Grandma would have dinner ready for us. “No way; it’s too late.” “Are you kidding? She lives for this!” They argued for a minute, then bet each other a quarter.

A moment of calm passed. “Okay, if she cooked, what did she make?” “Navy bean soup.” “Beef stew.” They bet each other another quarter.

It turned out that they each won one of the bets. Instead of just calling it a wash, my parents actually traded quarters.

This story reminds me of how my mom and I sometimes disagree about the way a word should be pronounced until one of us looks it up in the dictionary. Almost every time, both pronunciations are listed. So now, when we disagree on something, I automatically assume that we’re both right.

Ruining Christmas, One Family at a Time

The Foot Fetish Guy was not among the most disturbing calls I received while working at Company X, though.

Around Christmas, the company offered these striped long johns. The color combinations changed each year. Some families made it a tradition to dress everyone, from the baby to the grandparents, in matching outfits for a holiday portrait. Tops and bottoms were sold separately, and a finite number of each piece was made, so sometimes the fantasy of matching underwear didn’t pan out. Our supervisors warned us that customers would blame us for “ruining Christmas.” One livid customer informed me that since we were sold out of shirts in her son’s size, “he couldn’t be in the picture.” Working in customer service, your response has to be something along the lines of “I’m sorry,” rather than “That’s messed up.”

What an advantage that we can learn from other people’s behavior, not just our own mistakes.

Sticks and Stones

Now and then, I think of an episode of a daytime talk show I saw decades ago. A guest on the show had been homeless, addicted to heroin. Luckily, she managed to turn her life around. During the course of the segment, she figured out that she had started using drugs because she didn’t feel good about herself, and it all stemmed from being made fun as a kid for the clothes she wore. It stuck with me what a tremendous impact an insult can make. But the good news is, a compliment or kind gesture can also be life-changing. Whenever I think of this story, I try to be extra nice to the next person talk to.

Photo: Ruby Falls, Lookout Mountain, GA

Irish Dance and a Voice

On another adventure, my mom and I checked into a hotel room for the night. The room even had a balcony overlooking a lawn that led to a small lake, although we didn’t expect to use it since temperatures were predicted to dip into the 30s that night.

Settling into the room, we went out onto the balcony to get a better view of the sunset. As the pink streaks faded and the air turned cooler, we decided to go back inside, only to discover that the door had locked behind us. We were on the second floor, a concrete pad beneath us. Since it was so cold, none of the guests had their windows open. We were on the back side of the hotel, facing nothing but nature.

We yelled out phrases like, “Help! We’re stuck on the balcony! Call the front desk! Room one eleven!” [or whatever it was]. We tried yelling in unison. We yelled until we got tired, and then waited. The peaceful sound of the evening breeze was the only reply.

Our balcony came equipped with set of plastic tables and chairs. We got the idea to bang furniture against the railings. On my first swing, a piece of my chair cracked off. Not only was that furniture was too delicate for batting practice, it didn’t make any spectacular sounds.

My mom threatened to jump off the balcony. I talked her into holding off because I could just picture her hitting the concrete and breaking a leg. Plus, as the younger generation, I felt it should be my duty to volunteer for the more physically risky stunts, and I didn’t want to break my leg. “I’d rather have a broken leg and be alive,” she argued. Yes, but were we really to that point yet? She threatened to run and blast through the glass balcony door. I pointed out that the running start she’d get was about two feet long, and didn’t really seem adequate for anything other than dislocating a shoulder or acquiring some nasty bruises. “I’m not spending the night up here,” she pronounced.

I suggested, “You know how, in Irish dance, when everybody’s doing the same steps at the same time, it’s really loud?” We counted out a rhythm and held onto the railing, jumping in tandem. When our legs got tired, we stopped and waited. We were met with a tranquil silence.

It was getting serious. Before progressing to physically dangerous methods, I wanted to try one last effort to attract attention. This time we went all out, jumping and screaming, trying to be as annoying as possible. “HELP! WE’RE TRAPPED!” we screamed as we slammed our feet against the balcony.

Eventually, a man walked onto the lawn. I’ll never forget the way he slowly turned his head diagonally to look up at us, his eyebrows furrowed in an expression of What in the world is going on here, and who is causing this ruckus?

“Oh, thank God!!! Can you please tell the front desk that we’re trapped on our balcony?!!” I pleaded.

Who would’ve thought that the place we’d most need our survival backpacking supplies was at a hotel?

Down A Country Road

While my mom was rearranging items in her car trunk, I noticed a hand saw at the bottom of the pile. “Do you always keep a saw in your trunk?” “Yeah.” “Do you ever use it?” “Sometimes.”

Months later, the two of us were on an adventure drive. She was driving; I was navigating. I directed her onto a back road, and my route quickly stopped matching the picture on the map. It didn’t help that some of the intersections didn’t have street signs, and some of the lines on the map weren’t labeled. As we headed deeper into the forest, the road turned from gravel to dirt to mud, until we were on essentially a logging road. Suddenly, my mom stopped the car. A tree had fallen across the road and both shoulders; there was no way around it. By this point, we were probably 10 to 20 minutes in. Neither of us wanted to turn back.

Thankfully, we were in her car. We both thought of the saw in her trunk.

The tree was thin enough that we were able to saw its trunk into a few pieces and drag it off the road. [I say “we,” but about 90% of the sawing was done by my mom.]

We got back in the car and drove on. At some point, we came upon an older man walking with a cane and a Sheltie he called “Nickels.” My mom couldn’t stand the thought of an old man walking for miles alone in the middle of nowhere, so she pulled up beside him and asked if he wanted a ride. He got in, but we left his dog outside because her legs and the hair on her entire underbelly were covered in mud.

At first, the dog ran alongside of the car as we crawled through the mud, but soon we sped up to 20 or 30 miles per hour, and the dog shrank into a spot in the rearview mirror enthusiastically bounding toward us at full speed. Every now and then, the man would call “Nickles!” out the window, as if the dog needed encouragement. I was thinking, Dude, the dog is going to die if you make it run any faster.

We dropped the man off at a house along that forsaken road. He yelled out “Nickels!” for good measure as he exited the car. We may have waited a minute to make sure the dog wasn’t going to keel over from exertion, then headed toward paved roads and civilization.

Nowadays, if a road starts off gravel, the two of us hold out for the next turn.

Photo: Robert Scruggs House, Cowpens National Battlefield, SC

Scarlet Fever

In my mid-twenties, I went with a bunch of coworkers out to dinner. Somehow, the game Clue came up. Our store manager mentioned that she always wanted to be Professor Plum. I had to hand it to her for her forward thinking; Professor Plum was pictured as a man in the drawings and portrayed as a man in the movie, and I had never considered that as an option. Another coworker chimed in, “I wanted to be Mrs. White.” I was honestly shocked. I took it for granted that every woman wanted to be Miss Scarlet.

Who wouldn’t want to be Miss Scarlet? An eye-catching, trail-blazing, quick-thinking, sharp-shooting, freewheeling, razor-tongued, restless spitfire. Miss Scarlet is a forest fire, the reverberating crash of thunder, the hundred yard dash, a blaring trumpet solo surging almost out of control. Miss Scarlet is fearless.

I had forgotten about those characters until I recently saw Clue on my friend’s board game shelf. Next time I need a shot of courage or sass, I will try and channel the red hot vibes of Miss Scarlet.

Photo: Biltmore Estate, Asheville, NC

Growing Pains

About a week ago, I went to the emergency room. It turned out to be non-life-threatening, but I experienced some pain that’s slowly subsiding.

I thought of my last post about the missing notebooks and Life leaving me with nothing. I pictured Life taunting, “There goes your health!” I wondered darkly, What’s next? My identity? My money? My reputation? My memory? I’ll tell you what didn’t get taken away: good people who care about others in need.

I want to thank the friends, family, and even strangers who called, texted, emailed, offered to drive out and pick me up, and offered to let me stay in their homes to recuperate.

I spent a few days recovering with friends of a friend, but complete strangers to me. If I had been in perfect health and had been told, “I know some people who live near your campground. You could stop by and say hello,” I can guarantee you I would not have stopped. I am way too reserved to approach others like that. I’m not sure why. I guess it’s more out of habit then anything.

The couple I stayed with awed me by welcoming me so freely into their lives and treating me like family. These people would give you the shirts off their backs, and I am lucky to know them!

It’s a good lesson about what I’m missing out on by not branching out.

Photo: Hawks at Roman Nose State Park, OK

Shaken, Not Stirred

This morning, I noticed that the notebooks I’ve been working in were missing. I take them into laundromats, restaurants, and libraries with me. One is a journal, and the other is almost full of works in progress: stories, poems, pieces in germination. I called the last restaurant where I last took them; they said they hadn’t seen any notebooks. You can imagine: I felt sick. It felt like someone took a scalpel and carved out part of me without my consent. Well, I always say, Life Is the Best Teacher. I will probably be paranoid about keeping track of my notebooks from now on. Or maybe I will learn to gracefully let them go.

Posted on a trail map sign was a flyer for a lost dog. At least I didn’t lose a pet or a family member. It could have been worse.

It occurred to me that I had wanted to experience what life felt like with nothing. (See this post.) Life: “Here you go!” What can you do but move on? You work with what you can muster. I remember getting anxious in English classes in college because I couldn’t think of anything to write about that fit the assigned topic. I might be stressed for days until suddenly I’d realize, I’m a writer; I can make up anything. What difference would it make if the subject and details of my essay were real or imagined? Who would know? I didn’t end up fabricating any stories for assignments, but it always made me feel more secure knowing the option was there if I needed it.

Photo: Indian Boundary Lake, TN

Message in a Bottle

My great-grandma owned a typewriter, and when my family would visit relatives in Florida over Christmas vacation, typing on it was entertainment for me. On one visit, I typed an entire copy of Yoko Ono’s book Grapefruit. As kids, my brother and I had to write to a far-away relative every Sunday as one of our chores. At the time, it felt like an actual chore, but now, it’s hilarious to look through them and see what we wrote. I got a card back from my great-grandma once, thanking me for a drawing I had sent, and she added, “I don’t know if you are going to be a writer, an artist, or both.” God, I wish I had gripped those words like a life raft in fifteen-foot waves. If you receive any encouragement toward your goals, don’t forget about it like I did. Bottle it and let it buoy you in pessimistic, confusing, or disappointing times.

Photo: Platte River, as seen from Fort Kearny Recreation Area Hike-Bike Trail, NE

The Spirit of 66

I get really excited when I see anything related to Route 66. Like a lot of people, I’m captivated by the idea of it: the spontaneity, the adventure, the discovery. The truth is, I probably would have hated it: the clogged streets, the crowds, touristy souvenir shops, the roasting summer heat. When I see photos of Route 66 in its heyday, each lane of traffic as long as a freight train, all I can think about is trying to make a left turn out of a gas station.

Ironically, I drove five hours straight through to visit the Route 66 Museum in Clinton, Oklahoma. It was the only Point of Interest on the atlas to capture my attention that day. The museum came at a good time on my trip; I’ve been traveling too far too fast. It was a good reminder to slow down and savor my time.

When it comes to Route 66, I don’t think there’s anything special about that particular asphalt- it’s the style of travel that’s appealing: pick a road to drive on, and stop at whatever catches your eye along the way. Be present. Wholly experience the journey. The good news is that the spirit of 66 can be replicated on any road, in any town- even in your own neighborhood.

Photo: Roman Nose State Park, OK